


When I Close My Eyes (You Are By My Side)

by femwilde (harryflocka)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Also this is written in 3rd person omniscient, Angst, M/M, ghost fic, just thought i'd clarify that, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryflocka/pseuds/femwilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Close My Eyes (You Are By My Side)

There is absolutely nothing to watch on the telly. Louis has been flicking through the channels for the last 20 minutes and has come to the conclusion than he can either settle for watching how boxes are made, or write a strongly worded letter to the cable company to suggest a few changes be made. Of course, he doesn't technically have a cable company to write to considering he’s stealing cable. But still, this isn't what he didn't pay for, and if he’s going to go to Hell he might as well watch something worth suffering for the rest of eternity for. 

To be fair, Harry had told him quite a few times over the years that they should just pay for Sky TV and be done with it. And it wasn't like they couldn't afford it, what with Louis being a fairly successful real estate agent and Harry’s black-and-white photography having been so well received by the rich and pretentious. But Louis remembers being 20 and poor and having just moved in with his 18 year old boyfriend to a dingy flat with damp walls and bad lighting, eating noodles and whatever their mums’ could send them and, obviously, stealing cable to watch re-runs of their favourite shows. He remembers and he likes it, is the thing. Sure, he didn't like it back then, when it was all there was and they had no choice but to accept it. But now, surrounded by expensive furniture and marble counter-tops and with a hefty bank account to his name, he’d come to appreciate the little mundane things that brought him back to their roots, their beginnings. 

With a sigh, he turns the TV off and throws the blanket off him, careful not to drag it away from Harry’s spot in the couch, and walks to the kitchen. He feels himself smile as soon as he steps foot in it, the warmth that seems to constantly exude off the bright red walls enveloping him. It’s massive, their kitchen is. It was Harry who designed it. Harry who picked out the colour palette and who hung his own artsy food pictures on the walls. It was Louis, though, who convinced Harry that they really did need an iKettle, and it was also Louis who declared the third drawer to be their Take-Out Menu Stash. Yet it was always Harry the one who took it upon him to organize said drawer whenever Louis decided that he wanted whichever menu was buried at the bottom, and it was also Harry who went to pour the water in their cups after Louis had apparently used up all of his energy in opening the iKettle app. 

It always comes back to Harry. He’s okay with that.

He opens the cupboard above him as the water boils. He spares a moment to smile at their matching _“The Tealinsons”_ mugs, a ridiculous gift from his ridiculous husband, before he’s pouring the water in them and watching as it turns a deeper shade of brown with every passing second. It’s after he’s discarded the tea bags and taken a sip of his drink that he remembers that he was supposed to meet the boys at the pub 15 minutes ago. 

“Shit, why am I always so bloody late?” - His tongue burns from chugging down the hot liquid at such a fast pace. 

Harry had always been the one in charge of making sure they arrived everywhere with at least 10 minutes to spare. Louis had gotten used to it being that way; had stopped bothering to even carry a watch at all. 

Louis had also not once been on time on the last three years.

“Love, slow down.” - Harry’s leaning against the door frame, his curls are a mess and his shirt has dirt stains on it. 

He smiles to himself when he spots the mugs. He remembers Louis’ face when he brought them to their home a week after they’d arrived from their honeymoon, remembers the incredulous eyebrows and the sharp laugh and the smaller hands gripping his waist as lips strained to find his, kisses being exchanged in between breaths of “ridiculous” and “forever”. His thoughts are interrupted by Louis briskly walking past him, already reaching for his ( _Harry’s_ ) coat.

“I'll be back later, babe.” – Louis is looking anywhere but him. 

“I know you will.” – He says just as Louis is pocketing his car keys. 

“I love you.” – And the door closes behind him.

Harry turns to look at his tea, cooling down in the kitchen, unreachable, and heads back to the couch. 

“Love you too.” – He says to the empty air as he stares at the black screen of the TV, briefly considers turning it on before resignedly chuckling to himself, and waits. 

 

*****

 

“And the wanker thought I’d let him get away with it!” – Niall’s fist hits the table – “As if I’d ever let anyone walk away with both their legs intact after insulting my husband!”

“He didn't insult me, Niall,” –Zayn's hand is rubbing Niall’s back soothingly as he continues, – “He just said that my art wasn't all that it was cranked up to be.” – He says to Louis, an amused tilt to his mouth as Niall starts cursing incoherencies under his breath. 

“Well that’s pretty bloody offensive, Zayn. I’m with Ireland on this one.” – The latter attempts to fist bump him but ends up connecting his fist with Louis’ neck. Close enough. 

“You wouldn’t be siding with Niall if you’d seen how the guy looked afterwards” – Liam shoots a reprimanding look at Niall, who’s both too drunk and too enamoured by Zayn’s eyes to notice. 

“Which you didn’t, of course. Because you didn’t go to my exhibition, for reasons that I assume you’re about to explain.”

“I’m sorry, Zee” – Louis was. – “It’s just that…” – He didn’t want to finish the sentence. 

“Yeah?”

“’Love, Actually’ was on the telly.” 

The silence reigning over the table was almost deafening, and Louis suddenly found the bottom of his drink to be extremely interesting. So interesting, in fact, that he almost missed it when Zayn started speaking again, a softness to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Lou, you have seen that movie about, what, 20 times already?” 

_More like 85_ , Louis thought. He didn’t even like the movie. Didn’t like Hugh Grant enough to want to endure the sappy soundtrack and overly-populated cast. But it was Harry’s favourite movie, always had been, and every time it’d come on telly he’d make Louis sit with him, and would look just as entertained and engrossed by it as he did the first, and second, and third time they’d watched it. Louis _couldn’t_ miss it. _It was tradition_. 

“It’s tradition.” – His voice cracks almost imperceptibly. 

“I don’t think Harry would give a fuck if you missed it, to be quite honest with ya’” – Stupid drunk Niall slurs while spilling half of his stupid drink on his stupid jeans. Stupid jeans with a stupid cut out hole to show off his stupid scar that Louis used to draw on. _It’s all so stupid_. 

He hastily gets out of his chair and reaches for his coat, curtly bids his goodbyes as he fishes out a few bills from his pocket. As he walks to the door he pays no mind to his friends calling his name, he doesn’t care for the worried looks on their faces or the ghosts they’re carrying on their backs. He’s too consumed by the need to get home, to get to _Harry_.

He always comes back to Harry. He’s okay with that.

 

*****

 

“It’s okay, babe, it’s alright” – Harry’s eyes stay trained on Louis. Follow him pacing back and forth in their living room. Trail the movement of his hands raking through his hair. Catch the shakiness to his shoulders, the tremble in his mouth. 

He’s been like this since he got home. He hasn’t said a word. But Harry knew that something was off the moment he saw him walk back into their flat, read weariness in the slump of his shoulders and spotted his jittery hands as he hung the coat back in the hanger, discarding the rest of his belonging on the floor without a second thought.

But he hasn’t uttered a word. Hasn’t even called for Harry as he usually does when he arrives. And Harry’s fingers itch with the need to reach for him, embrace him and wrap around him like a security blanket. But Harry’s cold. _He’s always so cold_. 

“Fuck this.” – He hears Louis sigh defeatedly before making his way into the kitchen.

Harry watches him smile bitterly at the cold, untouched cup of tea sitting on the counter. Feels his own lips quiver at the sound of the liquid running down the drain.

“Goodnight, Haz” – A soft whisper reaches his ears right before he registers Louis entering their bedroom. 

“Right behind you, Lou.” 

He lets his feet drag him to the bed. He waits for Louis to take his designated spot, the mattress dipping under his weight. He smiles fondly at him as he reaches over to Harry’s side to arrange his pillows just the way he’s always liked them. Harry closes the distance between them and lies down. His side of the bed remains unperturbed. He turns to face Louis and lets himself relax to the even sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest a constant reassurance. Thoughts of blank TVs and cold tea the furthest thing from his mind.

“ _Always right behind you_.”

 

*****

 

There is a yellow stain on the living room carpet. It’s mustard; Louis knows this because he is the reason it is there in the first place. 

It happened 3 years ago. He was eating a hot-dog while watching the footie and didn’t realize the condiment dripping until it had already seeped into the fabric. He tried in vain to clean it up and, when he realized it was pointless, to find something inconspicuous to cover it up with. He thought a plant would work just fine, that is until Harry arrived home and asked him why there was a weeping fig awkwardly placed between the couch and the coffee table. His spur-of-the-moment excuse was met by Harry calmly moving said plant and proceeding to give Louis an award-worthy unimpressed look. However, his stern face soon turned into fond exasperation, and in a matter of seconds Louis was dragging him to the bedroom by the collar of his flower-patterned shirt, and Harry briefly told himself he’d clean up the mess the next day, when his pants weren’t so tight and his Louis wasn’t so close. They got lost in a mess of teeth marks that faded too soon and quiet moans that carried promises of a forever spent together. Louis’ taste making his way into every pore in Harry’s body, every small crack on his lips. Harry’s rough voice constantly reminding Louis of gravel. Louis wanted to fall face-first onto Harry for the rest of his life. Wanted to scrape his knees and elbows and the tip of his nose on Harry. Wanted to pick at the scabs incessantly until they gave up on healing all together; an eternal testimony on how fucking in love he was, how disgustingly happy they were.

By the time the orange glow of the morning trickled into their room their limbs were tangled to the point where you couldn’t tell where Louis ended and Harry began. 

They were both okay with that.

 

*****

 

 _7:05 a.m._ , the clock by the bedside table reads. Louis instinctively turns around and throws his arm around Harry. His hand grasps at thin air. _Idiot_. He closes his eyes and allows himself a few minutes to gather his thoughts. Once he’s moderately sure that he is not about to crawl out of his skin, he patters his way to the shower. 

_It’s the anniversary_ , Louis reminds himself. After all these years it still doesn’t feel real.

Harry himself never felt real to begin with. Even after they’d gotten married, Louis was still waiting for him to vanish in front of his very eyes, somehow. He was still waiting for someone to wake him up and tell him that it’d all been a dream. That people like Harry didn’t exist. That there was no way that an universe as messed up as this one could come up with someone as bright as Harry, someone who seemed to have been created with the exact space between Louis’ fingers in mind. 

But they did. _He did_. 

Louis is shaken out of his thoughts by overpriced organic apple scented shampoo getting in his eyes. Louis doesn’t even like apples. Harry always liked them, though. Harry always smelled like overpriced organic apple scented shampoo, and for the last 3 years Louis did, too. 

-

Harry can hear the water running from where he’s standing in the hall. Can hear Louis’ phone going off in their bedroom, knows he won’t bother checking it for the rest of the day. _It’s the anniversary_ , after all. Louis and him are going to spend all morning together. They always do on this day. 

Silently, he heads out the door. Louis will catch up with him; meet him at their usual spot. 

He always comes back to Harry. Harry sometimes wishes neither of them were okay with that. 

 

*****

 

“ _So kiss me where I lay down…_ ” –Harry starts singing as he sees Louis walk towards him. 

“ _…My hands pressed to your cheeks._ ” – The dirt is cold to Louis’ touch. 

Harry watches as the soil buries itself deeper under Louis’ nails; the same soil permanently covering his own shirt.

“ _I have loved you since we were 18…_ ” – Louis places the flowers in front of him. They’re green. They always are. 

“ _Long before we both thought the same thing…_ ” – Harry’s hand is reaching for Louis before he can stop himself, a natural impulse he knows he’ll never get rid of.  
It goes through him. 

“ _To be loved an-_ “– Louis’ voice fails him. He rests his forehead against the marble, the rain having dampened it overnight, causing a shiver to run down his spine. He wishes he didn’t find the feeling so familiar. 

“ _And to be in love._ ” – If Harry could breathe, right now he wouldn’t be able to. 

“ _These arms were made for holding you._ ” – Louis’ arms are wrapped tightly around the gravestone; he closes his eyes shut and tastes salt.

Harry needs to hold him back. The ship burns. The anchor drags him down. The swallows are picking at his skin. Everything feels _wrong_. And Harry _can’t hold him back_.

When Louis’ lips press against the “ _Harry Tomlinson-Styles_ ” carved into the tombstone, a sob tears its way out of both of their throats; and Harry wishes more than anything that he could have been there to get the mustard stain out of the carpet.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it possible to sue oneself? I think I just might. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> The quote in the summary is by e.e. Cummings. 
> 
> x
> 
> P.S.: Sorry if there are any grammatical mistakes! I re-read it like four times before posting it but you can never be too sure.


End file.
